“You poor abused child.”
My father would utter these words after he beat me, and I was feeling sorry for myself. Mind you, sometimes I was feeling sorry for myself with broken bones. I would not cry – crying brought even more damage in my house – but I might cheat a little whimper.
I was confused by his words. By then I was old enough to understand that supposedly there was this perfect world where these kinds of things didn’t happen. Were my classmates being beaten worse than me? Was that abuse?
The confusion snowballed. I was baffled by my emotions – how could I hate my father if he loved me? How could I feel sorry for myself if I deserved what was happening? How could my mother not intervene? There were so many questions.
I couldn’t put these words into context until after I was in therapy. The state sent me to a therapist when I was 16, after I turned in my uncle for sexual abuse.
In once session, Karen K (my therapist) asked me about the bruise on my face. “Oh, Dad and I had a fight,” I said, nonchalantly. She asked what happened and I proceeded to describe our brawl. She proceeded to call the state. Enraged, I told her it was not a big deal – no broken bones, no getting completely knocked out.
“Has he done that before?”
“Of course!” I yelled, which threw her into a fury. I ended up in foster care for a little while over that.
As angry and confused as I was, I started to understand that I really was an abused child. I had a right to be angry, and I spent a long time being in that angry place.
What I have spent very little time allowing myself to feel, is the sadness. Growing up that way was devastating to my psyche. There is so much grief it feels unbearable.
My current job is to hold that sadness, for little bits of time. I have spent time trying to touch it, and pulled back as though touching fire. I numb out – not with alcohol or drugs, but with natural chemicals my PTSD can create in my brain.
The news of late has given me a back door into the grief. I’ve cried. I have CRIED! That’s not something I often do. But once those tears start falling, I have been able to turn and see that “poor abused child” who also lives in my psyche. I’ve been able to shed a few tears with her, too.
I’ve know that tears are not the enemy, but rather a friend – in theory, that is. Over the last few days the idea is settling just the barest bit into my heart. A single tear feels like a geyser of expression.
Maybe it is ok to cry.
So I read these every time you post and it helps me to remember. I don’t remember a lot of my childhood (probably defensively) but I do remember not “wanting something to cry about”. I remember a few of the times dad was angry with me. I still don’t tend to cry, I hold my emotions pretty close. But thanks for working this out and sharing. You’re teaching me to change. I love you sis!
I love you too Rich, and appreciate all the good memories we’ve been able to build. I especially have loved watching you as a dad. Very healing for me.
Wonderful entry Karen. You are given so many people a voice. Thank you.
Thank you Rena! My biggest mission is to help people find their own voice, and I deeply believe in the power of storytelling to do that. When I heard others speak their truths I identified, and slowly found the courage to share my stories too.